Complications
by Principessa Di Morte
Summary: Why is it always the easy hunts that go bad? It must be one of those Winchester curses...  Hurt!Sam, Worried/Big Brother Dean


A friggin' _serial killer._

Dean swore that from now on all he was taking were the absolute hardest jobs he could find. Because it was always – _always_– the easy ones that went haywire. And Dean was sick and tired of dragging his bloody, half-conscious brother away from yet another Winchester disaster.

It should've been so simple. The mauled bodies that were popping up all over the place looked just like the work of a werewolf. So, okay, not exactly _simple,_ but a normal hunt. They could deal. Only, when they'd finally tracked the "werewolf" down, it hadn't been that at all. No, what they'd found was a man who had to have been a former knife-tosser at a circus. And he was extremely toss-happy. First glimpse of movement he'd seen through the bushes had a blade thrown straight through the leaves; a deadly missile.

Dean had been opposite the clearing they'd found him in, carefully cleaning his precious weapons. Naturally, they'd split up, Sam going one way, Dean the other. They both had rifles loaded with silver bullets. A couple of well-placed shots from their hiding places, and it'd be over. But no. Nothing could be that simple. In hindsight, they were _really_stupid not to notice the off-ness of it all. A werewolf with knives? Calm, cool, not even sniffing. But, in their defense, it _was_dark. And he _did_have his back to them.

But that didn't matter. They couldn't take it back. All that mattered was that he'd seen a very long, very sharp-looking knife thrown straight at the place where Sam was. And that there was a strangled cry after the weapon obviously hit its mark. All that mattered was that there was a very unhappy armed man stalking towards his vulnerable brother.

Dean didn't hesitate. He raised his arm and fired. One, two, three, four. The man jerked, there was a frozen moment of absolute silence, and then he dropped to the ground, boneless and most definitely dead. All Dean could hear for a moment was his own breathing, harsh and loud. Then another sound filtered in, out of synch, unnatural, and snapped Dean out of his stupor.

He sprinted across the clearing, tearing through the brush blocking him from his brother. He couldn't find Sam for a second, and it sent sheer panic galloping through his veins. But then he saw the darkness, seeping out from behind a tree, and heard the unsteady, shallow breathing, punctuated by sounds that could've been whimpers or sobs. Dean chose to ignore them for the moment.

He hurried around the thick trunk, dropping to his knees and swallowing hard. The knife was longer than he'd thought. It had sunk deep into Sam's shoulder, all the way to the hilt. Dean could spot a sharp protrusion just inside Sam's shoulder blade where the knife stuck out nearly an inch. Actually _stuck out_. It had gone completely through Sam's shoulder. This wasn't a knife—it was a frickin' sword! Dean sat in shock for a moment, horrified. That was, until Sam grabbed his wrist—_hard._Dean shook himself into a forcibly relaxed position.

"D-dean…"

Dean set his jaw, carefully unbuttoning Sam's over shirt, ignoring the pained gasps every tiny movement caused.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I-it's… bad, huh?"

"Nah. Just a flesh wound. You'll get over it."

"Y-yeah… right. You s-suck at… lying, Dean."

"Shut up."

Dean gently pulled Sam's sleeve off his left arm, propping him up so Dean could tug the rest of the material out from under his back. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched. His ashen skin glistened in the stark moonlight. Dean moved around to kneel at Sam's right side. He tore the material of Sam's shirt so it could slide off, around the knife. Dean placed one hand on Sam's chest, the other gripped the shirt.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Brace yourself."

With that, Dean increased the pressure on Sam's chest—just slightly—and quickly but carefully pulled the rest of the shirt away. Sam gasped sharply and tried to jerk away but Dean's hand kept him in place. He sunk to the ground, moaning. Dean winced in sympathy but hurriedly tore at the already-gaping hole in Sam's black tee and wrapped Sam's over shirt around the knife. Dean used his own to hastily tie the makeshift bandage together. He then grabbed both of their shotguns, shoving one in his waistband and keeping a firm grip on the other. Quickly moving again to Sam's opposite side, he grabbed his brother's upper arm, trying to transmit some strength and warmth. Dean knew they had to get back to their hotel room, or at the very least, the Impala. There wasn't enough light or room out here, they didn't have the first aid kit, and the risk for infection was far too great.

"Come on, Sammy, work with me here. We've gotta go."

"'N a m'nute."

"No, Sam, we've gotta leave. Now. So get up."

Sam's head lolled, flopping towards Dean to pin him with a glare.

"Yeah, I know. Believe me, I don't like it either, but we can't do this out here."

Sam sighed. "I know." He screwed his eyes shut for just a moment, then raised his good arm to Dean who took it, crouched, and slipped an arm around his lower back.

He stood slowly, but Sam still couldn't hold back an agonized groan. The Impala was only a little ways away, but their progress was impossibly slow. Dean set Sam in the passenger seat when they finally got there, purposefully averting his gaze from his brother's face. Dean reached into the backseat and grabbed the first aid kit, replacing his hastily improvised bandage with a proper one and giving Sam the best painkillers he could find—which, admittedly, weren't much.

Fortunately, the hotel they'd picked for the hunt was only a few miles away, and Dean wasted no time on laws in the process of getting there. He was clambering out of the car before the engine died, running to the lobby. The owner was inside, a slight, elderly man with a friendly face. He was leaning against the counter but stood up straight when Dean came in, smiling broadly.

"Can I help you, son?"

Dean ignored all formalities, his mind still with Sam, fading quickly in the car.

"Yes. Do you know where the nearest hospital is?"

The man's brow immediately furrowed in concern. "There isn't a hospital 'round here for nearly eighty miles. Why? Is something wrong?"

Dean's heart fell. "Yes. It's—it's my brother. He's hurt—bad, he needs help…"

"Well, maybe I can do something. I used to be an ER trauma surgeon."

Dean blinked, taken aback for a moment. Could this actually be a stroke of good luck?

"That-… that'd be great, yeah."

The man nodded. "I'm William, by the way. Call me Will."

"Dean. My brother's Sam."

"Alright, Dean. Just stay calm. Now, where is Sam?"

"In the car."

Dean was already sprinting out the lobby entrance, halting by the Impala and slowly opening the passenger side door, ready to catch Sam if he started falling. As it was, he didn't have that problem at all. Sam was hunched forward, right arm hanging slack by his side, left hand fisted in his jeans so tight Dean thought they might rip. He heard a gasp from behind him, and turned to see Will, eyes wide, hand to his mouth. But the seasoned ER veteran quickly recovered, and moved in beside Dean.

"Alright. We've gotta get him inside. We'll take him to the suite—there's more room and it'll be a little more comfortable."

If Dean was surprised, he didn't have any time to show it as Will instructed him on how to move Sam out of the car without jostling the wound. They made it the short distance to the end of the hotel, Sam nearing incoherency by this point. Will unlocked the door with a master key. Dean carried Sam in and gently laid him on the bed. Will shut the door and made a quick trip into the bathroom, bringing out a large medical kit and some water and towels. He dropped his bundle of towels into Dean's hand and set the water on the bedside table, digging around in the med kit and coming out with some sort of patch. He then situated himself beside Sam, turning to Dean.

"Alright. First thing, we've gotta get this thing out. But once I start tugging, he's gonna bleed fast, so we need to be ready." He handed Dean one of the patches. "Soon as that tip disappears, you get that over the wound, alright? Then put the towels on top of it and keep pressure on it. You've given him painkillers already?"

Dean nodded. "But they weren't much…"

"Better 'n nothin'."

"Right. Where should I be?"

"Behind him. Climb up on the bed, sorta hug-like—hope you two don't mind gettin' close. You'll need to be there when I tug it out—to stop the bleeding."

Dean nodded mutely, reading the unspoken words in the kindly man's gaze. Sure, that was a great place to reach over and smack the bandage on, but not the best. Really? He'd need to be there to hold Sam down.

Dean climbed into place.

"Alright, ready?"

Dean just nodded.

Firming his jaw, Will grasped the hilt of the knife and pulled.

Up until that point, Sam had been pretty unresponsive. But now, his eyes snapped open wide, body immediately trying to buck away from the pain. Dean tightened his arms around Sam's torso, shutting his eyes as the first scream was torn from Sam's throat. He grabbed the patch, ready to put it on, when Will swore viciously. Dean looked over, shock and trepidation glazing his features.

"What is it?"

"It's stuck," Will grunted. He leaned toward the medical bag, keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder, who was currently gasping shallowly, eyes shut tight. Dean silently ran a hand through Sam's hair, head tilted to the heavens.

"Is the tip still sticking out?"

Dean glanced down, heart pounding. "No. It's gone."

"Right. Then put that patch on and lay him down."

"But I thought—"

"I know!" Will snapped, concerned but keeping his hands and features steady. "Normally, the best way would be to keep him on his side, but I can't get it out that way. I think it might be stuck below the joint." He finally emerged from the bag, some sort of cream in his hand. "Got the patch on? Now lay him down. Careful." Dean didn't need to be told twice. Will turned to a quite-anxious Sam, laying the cream on the bed beside him. "Sam? I'm sorry, but this is gonna hurt like a mother."

Without another word, Will gripped the knife's handle and tugged hard. Dean was grasping Sam's wrist, but when the blade began moving, Sam shot his arm out, latching onto Dean's jacket. His back arched instinctively, a grating cry ripping forth from his trachea. Will sent Dean a frustrated look, and the younger man bent over his brother, hands on his face. Tears were streaming down Sam's temples, his eyes bright.

"Hey, hey, Sammy, look at me. Sammy."

Sam's eyes darted around a moment, frantic and desperate, before settling on Dean's face.

"Hey, that's it, Sammy, just look at me. Here, I'm here. That's it. You're okay."

Dean didn't even glance to Will once, just kept his hands on Sam's face, muttering what he hoped were calming words even as the broken look in Sam's eyes killed him.

"It's okay, you're okay, I'm here…"

Dean wasn't looking, but he heard when the knife came out, heard the horrible scraping, sucking noise, and heard Sam's agonized groan before he finally went limp, face and neck wet from sweat and tears. Dean sighed and pulled back, gently laying Sam back on the mattress, completely unaware of the wetness on his own face.

"Good job. You did good. Now we've just gotta get this cream on and get him all stitched and wrapped up—hopefully before he wakes up."

Dean just nodded, silent. He grabbed the cream as Will went for the bandages and unscrewed the large cap, dipping his fingers in and scooping out a generous amount. He plopped it on Sam's injury, grimacing as the white goop turned pink as it mixed with blood. Dean massaged it in, then went for the stitching tools, expertly preparing them and sticking the needle through Sam's skin, finishing within minutes. Will looked at him in surprise, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"I get the feeling this isn't the first time you've done this," he said, glancing back down at the numerous scars scrawled over Sam's torso.

"Not exactly," Dean replied, wrapping Sam's shoulder tightly. He sat back, admiring his handiwork for a moment before turning to Will. "Hey. Uh… thanks. We don't meet many people… like you, you know?"

Will just smiled. "Son, I get a frantic boy in my lobby asking for help, and he's got blood all over, then I find his brother in the car with a knife in the shoulder, you think I could just walk away?"

"Well… a lot of people would."

Will sighed, shaking his head. "Yes, I suppose so. Well, don't thank me. I get the feeling you'd do the same. Why don't you two stay here for a few days? I can pick up some pharmaceuticals… think I've still got my license somewhere." He smiled mischievously. "You two just sit tight. And this one's on me, alright? I don't want any protests. You boys are resting here for at least three days, no charge. Do I make myself clear?"

Dean had the mind to protest, but one look at Will's face and he decided, for once, to resist his instincts.

"Alright. Uh, thanks again… for all of this."

"Told you not to thank me. I'll be back in the morning, okay? You take good care of that boy."

"Don't worry, I will."

With a last wave, Will sauntered out the door into the quiet night air, whistling a soft tune.

Dean turned back to Sam, somewhat dumbstruck. The past three hours had gone by in a panicked blur for him, and the adrenaline rush that had kept him going was leaking out of his system. He sat down hard in a chair by the bed, sinking into it. On a sudden whim, he reached out and took Sam's hand.

"Glad you're at least getting some rest. You so owe me for this one."

* * * *

When Will returned the next morning with some stronger drugs, Sam still hadn't woken up. Will assured Dean it was nothing to worry about, his body was just recovering, and injected the meds into Sam's forearm. Almost immediately, Dean noticed the faint pain lines on Sam's face smooth out, and he smiled, turning to thank Will, but he was already gone. Dean smiled, turning back to the bed where, to his surprise, Sam's eyes were fluttering open. Dean rushed back to his chair, putting a hand on Sam's good shoulder.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. Have a nice nap?"

"Mnuugh…?" Sam mumbled, lazily glancing over to Dean. "D'n… l'k li' cr'p…" His gaze drifted to the counter behind his brother, brow crinkling just slightly. "S'at J'lo?"

Dean turned around, surprised. Sure enough, two boxes of Jell-O, one green and one red, were sitting there on the marble countertop. Dean chuckled.

"Will, you think of everything."

"Who's… Will?"

Dean sighed. "Only the guy who saved your life.'

Sam blinked. "W'll… ooohh. Got it. 'Member now. Th'ks, Will."

Dean snorted.

"Wha…?" Sam asked, quite indignantly. "G'tta be p'lite, Dean. Member wha' Dad taught us…"

That silenced Dean. Even through the haze of drugs Sam noticed the sudden silence; felt the silent tension that was suddenly rolling off Dean in waves. His sluggish brain took a moment to process it, but Sam finally figured it out. Right. Dad… wasn't there anymore.

"Uh… Sorry, Dean."

Dean glanced up, startled a bit to hear the clarity of Sam's voice. "Sam, you've gotta have the highest metabolism ever…"

"Uh… Just shook off m' sleepiness, I guess."

"Sure. You hungry?"

"Um… no?"

"Know what? I take that back. You're still stoned bad." Dean turned away with a chuckle, and Sam rolled over, trying to push himself up.

But for some reason, his right shoulder wasn't working very well. Dean saw his struggle and reached over to offer assistance, supporting Sam's back and shoving pillows under it until he could sit properly.

"Thanks, Dean. So… do we have any yogurt?"

Dean sighed. "Stupid health fanatic." But he went to the fridge to look, anyway.

"Hey, Dean?"'

Dean turned back, looking slightly exasperated. "Yes, your majesty?"

"It wasn't your fault. I thought you'd… gotten over this."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really, Dean? After all you've done, you're still feeling sorry for _that?_ I know it's hard to let go, but… I don't blame you. Just… I hope you know that."

Dean froze. It was just a second but Sam's eyes were sharp. Then he slumped back into his 'screw-the-world' position and shook his head.

"You know, you say the stupidest things when you're drugged to the gills, huh?"

Sam just smiled.

* * * *

Two days later, and Sam was back on his feet, albeit with a slight wince on his face. Stiff muscles compounded with a stab wound, he wouldn't be able to use his sling-ed shoulder for at the very least a couple of weeks. But other than that, Will promised he was doing fine. He seemed surprised Sam had recovered so quickly, but both brothers knew better. This wasn't the worst or last injury they'd receive. Will was still insisting that the fee was on him, that it had been a pleasure meeting two such obviously nice young men. There weren't enough people like that out there in the world, he claimed, willing to help someone like they would. They'd thrown his words right back at him, thanking him again, which he immediately protested. But somehow, they all got out of it in one piece—well, more or less--and were now seated comfortably in the Impala, pulling away from the quaint little hotel with smiles on their faces and food stored in a cooler behind them.

It took awhile, longer than Dean expected, but Sam finally sighed and turned to him, with that dooming 'chick-flick-moment-imminent' look plastered all over his pale face. Dean turned off the music and waited, fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel even as he pushed the pedal down just that much harder. A moment later, Sam still hadn't said anything. Dean was beginning to get antsy. As they passed yet another mile marker without a word, Dean could finally hold it in no longer.

"Well, say somethin' already, huh?!"

Sam grinned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean groaned. "You love this, don't you?"

Sam shrugged. "Still no idea."

There was another moment of silence, Dean glaring hotly at the side of Sam's head, before Sam sobered, slouching a little. He turned to Dean, heartfelt gratitude plainly emanating from him.

"Thanks, Dean."

It was just a breath, but it said so much more.

Dean merely nodded, making solid eye contact for a moment and no more, before turning back to the highway, spinning the volume knob as Led Zeppelin spilled out the old speakers. Sam rolled his eyes but grinned widely as Dean burst out in song, and the sleek black car sped down the asphalt, all three of them, in a rare moment, happy.

* * * *

Inside the 'quaint little hotel', Will turned to walk back to the end suite, clean sheets in hand. He slipped the key card in and pushed open the door, whistling once again. As he pulled back the sheets from the day before, he noticed a small envelope fluttering to the floor. Upon opening it, Will discovered the exact amount of money, in cash, any normal customers would've owed for every single amenity the brothers had used.

In a moment of sentimentality that took Will by surprise, his eyes welled up, and he grasped the envelope in a withered, trembling hand, holding it close to his heart. Well, who would have thought?

Maybe there were some good people left in the world after all.

* * * *

_A/N: Funny how we always make tragedies into fluffiness, huh? I guess, under all that sadistic behavior, we're all softies at heart. :D_


End file.
